


First Meetings and New Beginnings

by HeyitsWesley_13



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Also made the King more likeable apparently, Angst and Feels, F/F, Randvi has thoughts and feelings and I LOVE her!!, Someone give Randvi a HUG
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyitsWesley_13/pseuds/HeyitsWesley_13
Summary: “This is to be Randvi’s fate. Her father- the Jarl of the Reindeer Clan- was increasingly insistent that it would be the right decision to make, not just for Randvi’s sake but for the sake of her people, and it is with that thought that she closes her eyes- brows furrowing in frustration- and opens them again, releasing a deep, hot breath, watching as the steam meets the air in a puff and wondering, for just a moment, what it would feel like to be something as inconsequential as vapour.”
Relationships: Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 252





	1. The Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Randvi ft. FEELINGS?? Oh boy!

**Snow** drifts steadily through the evening’s air, landing silently on every flat surface and adding to the blanket of white that surrounds her. With a small grimace, Randvi notices that droplets of ice are now settling in her hair, too; cold and hollow like the feeling that has long been gnawing at the lining of her gut, and she grasps at the end of her ocean-kissed plait, gently tugging spots of white free. She moves to stand from her wooden seat at the head of the longboat, the throne that has been her perch for the past week creaking with the release of her weight, and she shivers despite her soft fox-fur cloak and despite the layers of armour and cloth she is wearing underneath claiming to maintain her body’s warmth (and evidently doing a poor job of such). 

“So this is Fornburg”, she ponders aloud, taking wide, measured steps, and the gruff noise of affirmation from her concierge, a stocky guard to her left named Birger, almost brings about a chuckle. But she can do no more than force another twitch of her lips and hopes that’ll do in the way of convincing him of her attention. Randvi cannot be blamed for wanting so little to be in her current situation right now, though- engaged to be wed to a stranger of a rival clan- an _enemy_ clan- a person whom she has had no previous contact with except perhaps within the heat of battle. She cannot believe how unfair it all feels to be the one under these circumstances, and a part of her still wishes that, even though she understands the simple importance of filling such a role as to be a jarl’s wife- to secure peace and promote prosperity and union- it were instead handed over to _someone else._

She takes a moment to be quiet and let her eyes-and her thoughts- roam about the area as her and Birger walk. Fornburg is beautiful at night, at least, torches glowing a deep orange and revealing the wooden frames of the region’s houses and huts, nearly all of them presented with flags of the raven clan-soon to be her clan, she surmises bitterly- billowing proudly in the freezing breeze.  


She continues her short journey down the narrow muddied path that frames the longhouse, footsteps in time with that of her bodyguard’s, until she reaches an opening. Briefly, Randvi registers the sounds of rough clanging, metal against metal, and her eyes navigate to her left and past a short wall of stone towards a distant blacksmith’s forge, the embers of the lit fire crackling and sizzling under pressures of the cold temperature. It is here in the dark that she can only just discern two figures- two bold outlines of people, really, one smaller than the other, the bigger shadow wielding the hammer- and even though she cannot quite see their features from so far a distance, it almost looks as if the smaller of the bodies is turned towards her. The minuscule hairs on the back of her neck stand with a rigidity and suddenness that has her heart thump unevenly, and she can assuage from that reaction alone that she is right, and that she is indeed being watched. _Gods,_ she thinks, willing her eyes to look upon _anything_ else, and finding a semblance of relief when they flit about to the right and settle firmly on a gushing river that seems to split the territory in two. She doesn’t _want_ to be here.

Alas, this is to be Randvi’s fate. Her father- the Jarl of the Reindeer Clan, a small colony to the North- was increasingly insistent that it would be the right decision to make, not just for Randvi’s sake but for the sake of her people, and it is with that thought that she closes her eyes- brows furrowing in frustration- and opens them again, releasing a deep, hot breath, watching as the steam meets the air in a puff and wondering, for just a moment, what it would feel like to be something as inconsequential as vapour.  


She is at once snapped immediately back in her surroundings as she hears a screech above her, and she cranes her neck, lifting a hand to her eyes as a shield from the brightness of the moon, eyeing what appears to be a large, coal-black bird circling her docked longboat. An eagle, perhaps? A second, discernible _caw_ echoes in the passing wind. Not an eagle, then, but a raven. A frown litters Randvi’s face as she takes the sight in, for ravens were bad omens, were they not? Dread seeps into her blood, bringing about a new wave of coldness, and a second shiver is suppressed with effort.  
Squaring her shoulders in what she hopes is a sign of confidence and determination, Randvi nods to herself once, lowering her gaze once more to the quiet settlement before her, and begins her short trek to the isle’s longhouse, where King Styrbjorn is waiting with a greeting.

She does not acknowledge the single pair of eyes still watching her, and does not see the raven come to land on the lithe blackened figure’s shoulder.

Every step she takes brings her closer to her future, as Randvi is fully aware, and the dread in her veins feels as though it is thickening with each _crunch_ of the freshly fallen snow beneath her feet. She spares a final glance around, avoiding the forge, and instead notes various stalls of a market, empty now the night has come and the occupants have since retreated to their homes, and wets her cracked lips. It isn’t home, is far from it in fact, but she supposes that it’ll have to do. Birger, who has remained by Randvi’s side since stepping off the boat, leans forward to open the large wooden door for her, and she braces herself for an introduction.

“Ah, you must be dear Randvi of the Reindeer Clan!” a deep voice bellows into the candlelight of the house, and she is taken aback by the sound, so unexpected and contrasting to the near-silence of outside, that she physically steps back, barely bumping into poor Birger standing behind her.  
It is a man in the later years of his life, greying hair and beard accentuating the time of fighting and leadership he has had to endure for so long, who meets her in the middle of the hall, Randvi taking three long strides and holding out her left hand in a brazen, if startled, _hello._  


King Styrbjorn of the Raven Clan glances down at the hand being held out to him and blinks, before looking back upwards and meeting Randvi’s eyes with a large grin, a twinkle in his own. He guffaws, again loudly and with such freedom that Randvi flinches, and shakes his head, exclaiming a booming: “we don’t shake hands here, my Lady!”  
Randvi opens her mouth to protest, unfamiliar with such a warm welcome, but closes it sharply and with a _click_ as her entire body is hit with the full force of the King’s arms and torso, and within a split second she is engulfed in heat.  
_Oh,_ is the thought that crosses her mind, for such hospitality is foreign to her. The Reindeer Clan, vicious and unrelenting, are people of honour and strength, and this attitude is reflected in the behaviour of the members within the settlement. Since birth, Randvi has been treated with respect and dignity, and she has grown with encouragement and tough love. Hugs are not commonplace in her community- only stern words and harsh teachings of right and wrong. If she were particularly well behaved, the most physical contact in show of pride Randvi could expect was a pat on her back. A gesture of good faith, but not necessarily one of _love._ As much as it saddened her, she knew that she was but an object of peace, a way to end a war; and so she had never expected anything else, or to be treated any other way.  
So this. This was unfamiliar territory, and she did not know how to react. 

It was a good thing, then, that as quickly as the hug appears, it leaves her, the King leaning back and dropping his arms to his side. For a moment, Randvi almost _misses_ the contact, but the remnants of her discomfort reminds her of the reason she was here to begin with. _Secure peace, secure peace, secure peace,_ her mind sings softly, and she plants a smile, facing her motive head-on and asking:

“So, my King. Who is to be my husband for this alliance?”

Randvi anticipates seriousness, diplomacy, even business from the man standing before her. What she doesn’t expect is for her question to be met with the bark of laughter, deafening and throaty. She worries her brows, face moulding in deep set confusion, but King Styrbjorn gives nothing else away, his laughter ongoing. _Perhaps he has gone mad,_ a quiet voice murmurs in the back of her head, but Randvi pays it little attention, instead turning to face Birger, who, unsurprisingly she acquiesces, looks as bewildered as she feels. Still the King laughs, and it is only when Randvi clears her throat, once, twice, three times- that he seems to take notice he still has _company_ with him, and he swipes at the tears in his eyes, his chortling receding until he is silent once more.  


Randvi does not get the joke, and is too tired by now to _attempt_ to understand what could possibly be funny about her asking after her new husband, but she lets the air stagnate for a short time, and even then waits.

“You’ll meet my boy Sigurd tomorrow morning and most likely before the reception”, the King begins, a trace of humour still detectable in his features. “Eivor, my daughter, will be accompanying him, for they do not tend to go too long without each other’s company nowadays. They have always been very close.” 

Randvi nods as her superior speaks, letting his words drape over her like weighted cloth, until they start slowly absorbing into her skin. _Sigurd,_ she thinks, the name unnatural in her brain, but she knows that everything about her life has been unnatural up until this point, and that it wouldn’t likely change just because of an arranged marriage.  
She is so caught up in her thoughts of _Sigurd_ and of _wedding_ that she fails to feel burly hands on her shoulders rotating her and leading her to a darkened corner, to the right side of the feasting hall she was just in.  


“These will be your sleeping quarters for the night, Lady Randvi.” She looks on dejectedly towards the makeshift bed of furs nestled together on the floor, and he goes on, “once you are wed, you will be introduced to the house you are to share with your partner and Jarl. It is a quaint build but plenty good enough; I hope it will suit both you and your husband’s needs”, Styrbjorn says, stressing the word _husband_ with a scoff and still, Randvi is at a loss. She composes herself quickly enough to urge: “but, my Lord, what of the festivities? And the preparations? And—“

“All in good time, all in good time!” comes the hurried reply, and yet it is as if the King hadn’t spoken at all, for Randvi presses on with: “—I must sit with you to discuss the ceremony, and the coming alliance between clans, _surely?_ ” The last word inflected with an urgency and desperation because Randvi was nothing if not articulate and meticulous and methodical, and she needed to be as prepared for her impending nuptials as possible, resting be damned. Her breath quickens as her thoughts begin to race, jumbling into a culmination of messy _what’s_ and _how’s_ and _what if’s,_ and it is as though her elder notices the panic rising on Randvi’s face, a deep pink now dusting her cheeks and spreading rapidly, for he swivels her body around to face him once more and he sighs. Randvi’s eyes are darting anywhere but the taller man in front of her, and she manages to fix her look on the fireplace built in the very centre of the hall as a way to calm her sudden onset of nerves. Somehow, firelight always seems to quell her anxieties; perhaps it’s because of the colours she sees, reds and oranges dancing together in harmony; or perhaps it’s the relation of steady warmth it brings her, as though her body, too, was of fire, gently burning from the inside out. Either way, the usual fading of her worries in the face of flames is soon to address her as it normally does, as Randvi takes a short breath through her nose, landing her gaze on her ruler and soon-to-be father-in-law.

Styrbjorn’s kind blue eyes are brimming with mirth, but there’s a hint of an emotion Randvi can’t seem to place. Trepidation, perhaps- Unease? Uncertainty, even- and he smiles softly, the sight of which juxtaposes his entire _being_ for he is a creature of power who cannot possibly be anything but hard, jagged edges and tough exterior, and murmurs a well-intentioned: “be calm, child.”

Randvi doesn’t know whether she wants to laugh or cry with such an order. _Be calm?_ She thinks, her conscience teasing. How can she possibly be expected to maintain any and all signs of placidity when she feels the furthest from _ready_ that she has for something in a long while? She sniffs and, oh, she’s beginning to cry- how _mortifying_ \- when she feels a hand on her cheek, her body stilling with the gesture and vision blurring tenfold as she feels a large calloused thumb sweep gently under her right eye. The unrecognisable intimacy, as intrusive as it is, brings about a stirring of melancholy deep within the recesses of Randvi’s soul, and she catches herself wishing she had more of _this_ when she was but a young wildling, more affection and more _love,_ tilting her head ever so slightly to press the hand firmer against her cheekbone. She cannot recall her own father acting out of such care, unintentioned or otherwise, and her melancholy swells until her heart feels as though it’ll burst with longing. She feels as though the tears on her face should resemble the rushing of a waterfall by now, hazardous and forceful and all-consuming as they gush from her wettened eyes, but instead she only notes a single droplet slip freely down her left cheek, tracking silently past her nose and stopping only to rest below her jaw. Fluttering her eyes to clear them of their moisture, Randvi exhales, and it is a haunting sound, shaky and choking and so unbecoming of a future-jarl’s-future-wife that she almost believes she will be reprimanded for releasing it, but her breath only meets still air.  


The King remains to be looking at her, his hand still cradling her face and his gaze soft and open, as he assures her with:

“My dear. I promise you that, come the morrow, my people will welcome you with the most open of arms and the kindest of hearts. You will be no stranger among us, Randvi of the Reindeer Clan. We all realise the sacrifice you have made for yourself and for your community, and—“

She grunts in mock argument, and he shushes her.

“— Listen to me. We all acknowledge the burden this arrangement has put on your shoulders over your lifetime. But we also acknowledge the strength that you have shown to yourself and to your peers in spite of it, and we respect you as a warrior and a jarl’s daughter and as a woman of substantial courage and bravery. We shall grant you the time, space and freedom you need to be comfortable here, until it feels as homely to you as it is for all of us.”

Styrbjorn leaves no room and no time for Randvi to answer him- she is unable to in any case, features contorted in shock and awe- and so he beams a toothy grin, letting his left arm drop to his side and nodding once in finality, before stepping backwards and turning to leave, throwing a: “Get some rest, my Lady! Tomorrow is a big day for all of us!” over his shoulder.

“Yes, my Lord!” Randvi stupidly calls out a minute later, her voice breaking weakly, and she hears the echoes of chuckling reverberate throughout the longhouse’s walls. Her dried eyes begin seeking Birger, but he is nowhere to be seen, and she concludes he must have left her and the King alone to talk between themselves some time ago. In a way, the knowledge that she cried like a little child in front of a practical stranger- a King, no less- is made less embarrassing when Randvi realises she had done so only in front of the man himself and without any other witnesses. She sighs to herself loudly and overdramatically, and shakes thoughts of _stupid, stupid, stupid_ free from the web of self-deprecation within her head. Styrbjorn is right; she must get some rest. It is as if her body is in agreement, too, for even the notion of sleep tempts the exhaustion from the past week to creep into her bones, and she turns to face her own resting area with a sleepy huff.

The corner looks to have been made hurriedly and with little attention to any sort of detail, a fact that Randvi does not mind in the slightest, but she does notice the solitary chair standing tall, its back leaning against the wall so that it is facing towards the hall, and decides then that it is what she will use to leave her clothes for the night. A small, flickering torch is the only source of light, and it sits attached to the plank of wood that encompasses the frame of the wall. Despite the openness of the space, Randvi finds it to be suitable enough for only an evening, and she thinks it will do in terms of privacy, too, for it is far too dim for a guard or a clansman to make note of her unless they were but a few paces away.

Randvi shrugs out of her cloak, hanging it on the back of the tall chair, and tepidly begins removing every other vestment until she is left in nothing but a thin cream linen dress. She stands beside her makeshift bed, eyes raking over the various furs and cloths strewn about, and she gives pause to envision what it would be like having to share this sort of room with another person, with a man, with _Sigurd,_ his limbs most likely protruding from any and all angles of the sheets, hardened feet digging into her back as she is slowly but surely pushed onto the chill of the uncovered floor during the night. The mere thought depresses her, and she hastily fists at the handmade blankets, lifting them up and sliding underneath in an effort to momentarily distract herself.  


Like most of her usual methods of distraction, it does not work, and she faces the high ceiling in exasperation. She cannot help the imaginings her head starts to conjure, of the face and body of the unmet man she is preparing to be sworn to. Will he be handsome? Kind? Courageous? Attentive to her whims and needs? Will he be strong and fearless in the face of danger, or will he be cowardly and contrite instead? Will he be intelligent and sharp-tongued? Funny and insightful? Will he be a good husband, always looking out for her but remaining respectful to her feelings and independence? Will he be _good_ for her?  


Randvi lets these thoughts race unshackled in the cage of her mind, watching the unsteady flicker of the torch’s golden flame above her head, and slowly allows for them to send her into a fitful sleep.

  
  


**The** distant chirping of birdsong awakens Randvi, alerting her to the time of day, and she blinks a heavy eye open to greet the morning’s light. She feels unrested and hungry, but knows that as is customary, she cannot eat until the feasting begins- after the wedding.

_Her wedding._

The events from the previous night flash before her eyes so hurriedly that her head aches, and she is reminded- abruptly so- that she is due to be wed today. To a stranger. To the King’s son. To a _man._ That thought alone reignites Randvi’s dread from where it had been quashed in the confines of her stomach, and she sits up, groaning in resignation. She glances to her right, where the chair is stationed, and knits her brows when she sees that the clothes she had placed on top of it have since disappeared, replaced instead with what looks to be a wedding outfit reserved for her, clan shades of green and white so dissimilar to her own Reindeer purples and blues that it leaves her a little perturbed. All the same, she releases a subdued breath, biting at her bottom lip with her teeth as she lifts herself from the fur covers and stands, raising her arms above her head and hearing the satisfying crack of her shoulders as the bones relax and her muscles stretch. She swivels her body around to face the chair, eyeing her new garments with suspicion, but a voice tells her she must conform in order to meet- perhaps even exceed- expectations, and so she grabs at green, holding it in front of her face to inspect it closer. It is not the colour best suited to her, but she supposes it will have to do- she will be a representative of the Raven Clan within a few hours, after all. It is with this rumination that she throws the shirt back upon the chair and shakes her head. She will prioritise her actions for the day, having no official aid with which to help her ready herself, and begin by bathing. She stops to remember the location of a bath house she’d seen in passing the night before, just outside of the longhouse, and, swiping at the nearest blanket to cover her transparent attire, heads towards it.

A cold bath and leisurely dressing later, Randvi is back in her tiny corner of the world, sitting on the chair and plaiting her hair with practised fingers. There was no need for a mirror; Randvi had been her own stylist since she was young and her fiery hair was long enough to twist around her fingertips, and so she takes her time with the process, humming sweetly under her breath. She thinks back to her wash, scrunching her brows together as she comes to realise that, despite the day and despite the supposed importance of such an occasion as a _wedding,_ she had not seen too many faces on her venture. In fact, there was an eerily silence to the settlement, as if most inhabitants were in hiding, but for no reason Randvi could decipher. Where was everyone? Where was Birger? And where, a voice nips in the back of her mind, was the King?

Randvi allows for a long moment to pass within the silence of the longhouse hall, but she does not see a single soul flit in or out of the main entrance. She finds herself sitting on the edge of her seat now, quite literally, thoughts spinning as a sort of fear overcomes her, producing a small, violent shake of her body, and yet the silence ebs on. She grows restless, her legs kicking out beneath her, and she cannot bear the quiet anymore, standing up and rushing towards the center of the house and past the wide door if only to provide her nerves with release. She brings a hand to her mouth, chewing at a fingernail in apprehension, her pulse fluttering in a panic, and brings her other hand up to rub at her forehead.  
She feels out of place and out of sorts in this building and in this region, and she wants to scream in her frustrations, for _where was everyone?_ But then, as if her thoughts have been heard-

“Randvi of the Reindeer Clan, I take it?” a voice calls from behind her, and she whirls around in time to witness the entrance of a tall man, red haired and blue eyed and the spitting image of the King. He is handsome, she can admit to herself. Dressed in his clan’s colours, fitted black boots strapped to his feet and wolf fur cloak draped across his back, tying itself loosely at the front of his neck, the man- _Sigurd,_ Randvi reminds herself- looks every part a Prince, and she reckons he will be agreeable enough.  


Randvi gives a polite and friendly smile as she drops both arms in relief and bows her head, eyes downcast to address royalty in the proper way, and in the way she had been taught to since she could stand and walk, but she hears an awkward “no no, please, stand tall” and is taken aback, straightening herself almost immediately and coming up to meet the joyous features of the King’s son. 

“Sigurd Styrbjornsson- it is a pleasure”, Randvi says, voice level and courteous, hysteria waning with the presence of another person at last. 

“Well met, my Lady”, comes Sigurd’s reply, and he stretches an arm out to take a hand, leaning forwards to press a wet kiss on the smooth skin as he continues: “I trust your journey was not too difficult? The seas can be so very treacherous at this time in the Winter.”  


Randvi pauses to contemplate her answer, choosing not to give too much of herself away at first meeting, and settles with a small truth. “It was… Cold. But nothing I am not accustomed to.” A beat, a confused tilt of her head, and then- “Forgive me, Sigurd, but is everything not ready for our ceremony? It’s just that the Sun is high in the sky and yet there seems to be no movement on the ground. Is there a problem? Are we not marrying today?”

There is a sudden hush in the room, and Sigurd looks at Randvi strangely, with a worry to his brow, but he is quick to mask it and something within him seems to catch on, for he grins, wide and knowing, letting out an uproarious and unceremonious laugh and, _really,_ Randvi contemplates, _is the entire family of Styrbjorn raving mad?_  
The Prince is quick to collect himself, but there remains a hint of comedy within the lines of his face and the twitch of his lips, his expression fun as he breathes an apology and a: “You are indeed going to be married today, Randvi, but not to me. Although I will be the first to say how awfully sorry I feel for you, missing out on a man such as myself”- he points to himself in exaggerated arrogance- “If it is a problem—“  


“No, no, it’s no— it’s no _trouble_ at all, really—“

“Well, I’m sure I can bring about some trouble for you, my Lady” comes a husky voice to her right, and Randvi turns her head, lips parting again to speak, before—

Oh.

Her mouth closes again with a snap as she watches the voice’s owner self-assuredly stride towards her, face held high and ocean-eyes bright and blonde hair braided behind her neatly, head shaved on each side, and black tattoo of a raven outlining her right ear and a deep, long scar cutting a strip from her left cheek to her upper lip and with a jawline well-defined and—

_Oh._

“My name is Eivor”, the blonde vision says with a smirk and lift of an eyebrow, her cheek raising, the scar on her face more prominent with the movement, and Randvi is made dumb, still trying to process _Eivor, Eivor, Eivor,_ when her soul all but leaves her body and ascends to Valhalla at the words she hears next:

“... and you, Randvi of the Reindeer Clan, are my bride.”


	2. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Randvi can see the apprehension on her bride’s face, and hopes that the widened smile she provides can bring the blonde some sort of comfort and ease. It appears to do the trick, for Eivor returns her grin, toothy and large, her cheeks dimpling and _oh_ , Randvi thinks, _oh, she’s beautiful._ “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lesbians, amirite?

**Static** surrounds the space between Eivor, Sigurd and Randvi, the latter of the three still frozen in shock, mouth open and cheeks bright red in chagrin, and the room becomes so quiet and still that the chilled breeze that has been steadily building throughout the day can be heard outside the longhouse doorway. It becomes apparent that Randvi, still in her complete daze, is not going to be speaking up any time soon, and she stares as Eivor’s smirk begins to fade from her features, watching apprehension settle across her solid brows as she looks towards her brother on her right, giving him a curt nod of her head as if to say _go._ Sigurd gets the message plain and clear it seems, and Randvi can see him move to leave from her periphery, her attention still on the woman directly in front of her. Randvi thinks she can hear him mutter a farewell as he departs, but she pays him no mind whatsoever, and the fact she _realises_ she’s being idiotic but cannot do a thing to change it only worsens the deep hue of red that is spread across her cheekbones. For she is, she knows it; she _is_ acting foolish and immature, she _is_ acting out of the ordinary- but her shock has overcome all rational sense, and even her head is ringing with revelation. 

She is attuned to Eivor’s every change of emotion as it passes across her face, and her eyes travel downwards, settling themselves on pink, scarred lips as they are bitten and _oh,_ Randvi wants to look away but she can _not._ So instead, she watches in silent rapture and fascination as Eivor nibbles at her mouth before she swipes her tongue and begins to move her lips and oh, alright, she’s talking.

“I know this may come as a big surprise for you, my Lady. But I swear to explain to you all I can on the way. My brother already knows to meet us there, so come with me. Please.”

Randvi can do nothing but nod before she regains her bearings, and it is enough, for just a short time, to subdue a softened, dry: “on the way to where?” 

She sees the upturn of Eivor’s lips as the blonde brings her hands forward to gently grasp Randvi’s wrists, the hands still tied together in tension, and she feels the hardened skin of Eivor’s palms as she allows for her own to be separated and held. Randvi’s eyes dart down quickly to look at the joined skin and she notices a strong thumb rubbing at her flesh, the motion circling and soothing in its attempts but doing anything but stoking at a fire deep in her belly. Randvi becomes so entranced now with this pattern of movement, despite her brain flashing with a chorus of _focus, focus, focus,_ that she almost misses the next thing Eivor even says and Gods, she should really maintain her composure. Her face, heat radiating from reddened cheeks like a furnace, breaks into a minute smile, as Eivor says, nervousness shadowing her words:

“To our wedding ceremony, of course.”

  
  


**Midday** sunshine brightens the isle of Fornburg, light bouncing off the snow on the ground and making the white blanket sparkle, and Randvi, now for the second time since arriving last night, thinks that it looks quite beautiful. Everything is bathed in ice, glinting like crystals, and she wonders briefly how the area would look in the Spring or Summer- she supposes it would be much the same, what with the temperatures remaining near constant all year round and the weather remaining cold and wintry. 

She isn’t left alone with her own thoughts for long though, as she is brought back to her current surroundings with a voice to her left asking:

“Are you alright, my Lady?”

Randvi’s head follows the noise and settles on the face of her soon-to-be wife- _wife-_ Eivor, her blue eyes questioning and open. Gods, _Eivor._ Randvi has only known of the woman for a short while, now, the surprise of “you are my bride” still echoing in the far back chasms of her mind, and yet she feels immediately five years younger with her sudden infatuation, her heart racing and her palms beginning to sweat, and she can only manage a small nod before she has to look away, embarrassed as though she is but a girl with a crush.  


She can hear Eivor click her tongue and release a quiet, throaty chuckle, and she wonders what the reason for it is, but she can’t bring herself to turn her head again and see. And yes, Randvi knows how utterly pathetic and childish she appears- can feel her stomach swoop with nervousness and confusion and bewilderment and fear, all emotions knotting together tightly to form the ball that has seemingly lodged itself firmly within her throat- and yes, she knows she should say something more to her bride-to-be as they traipse along the snowy mountainside, should open her mouth and let the words on the very tip of her tongue escape into frosty air, but the thing is—

The thing is—

“I understand how you are feeling right this moment, you know” comes a quiet and contemplative murmur from the blonde beside her, and Randvi feels her heart stutter and start as if it were being shocked with electricity because _what_ and _how._ Her neck turns with such a speed that she can _feel_ the muscles protest, but she is too perplexed to care, because Eivor continues to speak with empathy, her voice encouraging and soft despite the attractive husk and her eyes downcast, focused on her snow-covered boots as she walks:

“It wasn’t so long ago I was informed of our arrangement, and I didn’t know what to think or how to feel about it. I never considered a marriage to settle a war between my people and another clan to be a possibility, but the King was adamant. And I suppose at first, the idea didn’t particularly appeal to me. I am not the sort of person to just marry out of duty or obligation, you see; I am a warrior, Wolf-Kissed they call me. I was brought up in this way, fighting and raiding and pillaging for the honour of my people, of my King. So this plan, well. I offered for Sigurd to take my place instead, being that he is older and has a likening to lead. But then..”

A pause, and Eivor exhales, stopping in her tracks, Randvi stopping in time. _But then?_ The voice in Randvi’s mind whispers, goading as if the King’s daughter could possibly hear her thoughts. Her heart, once only stuttering, is now beating a furious rhythm in her chest, a brutal, fast-paced _thump thump, thump thump_ which threatens to burst from her flesh if Eivor doesn’t just _talk_ already. 

Eivor’s neck turns just a fraction- enough so that Randvi can see her expression- and Randvi has to refrain from gasping at the emotion she finds swirling in the blonde’s eyes as they flicker up from their position on frosted boots to gaze upon her face. Eivor’s eyes are stunning in the sunshine, shining clear and blue as if a piece of the sky were picked out and placed inside both, and there’s a thin sheen over them, unshed tears resting themselves within open eyelids. The sight of such reverence and longing from a stranger should be odd to Randvi, but _Gods,_ she wants nothing more than to kneel on the ground and welcome it, worship it, revel in it.

Eivor smiles and it’s a small but beautiful thing, as she whispers:

“But then I saw you last night by the docks, with your hair blowing in the evening breeze and your pretty face illuminated by nearby torches, and you bewitched me. It was then as if everything changed.”

And the romantic side of Randvi coos and _melts_ at Eivor’s words, wanting to hear more affection, more fondness, more _everything._ The rational side of her, however, emerges from its cave from where it had been hiding since their meeting and she is hit with the realisation too quickly for her next words to be thought out before they escape her throat in a shrill:

“I _knew_ I was being watched! That was _you_ all along?”

Her reaction is unanticipated, for herself and for Eivor it seems, for the blonde’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Eivor is quick to mask her reaction, however, face schooling itself into impassiveness, and she takes a beat before shrugging and calmly replying:

“I wasn’t watching you as such. It was more an observation. You see, I was speaking with Gunnar, our blacksmith, and then I saw the arrival of your longship and—“

“You thought you’d welcome me to your land by standing still in darkness and giving me a fright?” Randvi supplies, and she knows she’s being petulant now but _really,_ as if she weren’t feeling unwelcome already what with the missing residents and surprise! It’s a bride! announcement and—

“My Lady, you’re walking the wrong way! I’m sorry for scaring you but please, come back to me!” She hears after her, and it’s only when she feels warmth and sees brown that Randvi snaps from her mad stupor, stopping to notice she’s stomped directly into someone’s lodgings, and _what-_

“Our seer’s hut.” Comes a breathless answer to her unasked question, and she whips her head around to see Eivor rush in, wolf fur cloak billowing behind her- and oh, she’s dressed in _nothing_ but breeches, boots and cloak, Randvi takes in for the first time- as she sighs and explains: 

“Valka is our seer here in Fornburg. She is not here at the moment because she is further up the mountain, at our wedding, where we are _not_ because we are _here_ in her hut. We really must get going, my Lady, before the King sends out his guards to search for our whereabouts.”

Randvi wants to say _no,_ wants to say she’d much prefer to remain here where it is temperate and dry and away from all noise, but she knows she cannot. She also knows that deep, deep down within her gut, she feels she actually _wants_ to get married, wants to be wed to the enigma who stands before her, wants to see her in the throes of intimacy and moments of calm, wants to see her troubled and forlorn, angry and upset, impassioned and excited. Randvi, for all her indecisive thoughts and feelings, thinks that despite everything, she’d quite like to be wed to a puzzle piece, would quite like to have a lifetime of curiosity, and so she lets out a huff, staring Eivor in her eyes for just a moment as if to challenge her. She wants to be admonishing, be firm.

“Call me Randvi,” she offers instead, and it’s said gently and warmly and _Gods,_ she can’t even be _angry-_ less so when she witnesses Eivor’s eyes begin to sparkle, something like a gleeful, wry grin taking over her face, scar seemingly crumpling in on itself as her cheeks raise and a small, cute chuckle escapes her open mouth. 

Randvi watches with hesitation- and, if she’s being honest with herself, an inkling of adoration- as Eivor lifts her hand and holds out her palm. Still, she takes it.

“Well then. Onto our wedding, _Randvi._ ”

  
  


**The** gasp Randvi has kept contained within her chest all but rushes out of her at the sight she is greeted with when herself and Eivor finally reach their intended destination at the top of the mountain. Snow, once thought to be only a few inches deep at the most on their way up, looks to be metres tall, swept to both far sides of a manmade walkway to accommodate for the crowd that has since converged in rows, all standing to face the women as they approach. Randvi thinks _so this is where the people of Fornburg disappeared to_ , before she spots Birger among the throng of strangers, smiling at her in awe and pride, and she all but cries with the relief that there remains someone familiar to her- _familial_ to her- here to witness her vows. She shakes her head with the reminder that yes, she will be married atop this whitened peak before the Sun reaches the highest point in the sky, and looks over to her left, where Eivor is standing awkwardly and silently, scratching at the back of her neck and watching for her reaction. Randvi can see the apprehension on her bride’s face, and hopes that the widened smile she provides can bring the blonde some sort of comfort and ease. It appears to do the trick, for Eivor returns her grin, toothy and large, her cheeks dimpling and _oh,_ Randvi thinks, _oh, she’s beautiful._

Laughter erupts around the bodies of spectators, Eivor herself letting loose a breathy chuckle, and Randvi glances around, somewhat startled and somewhat puzzled, when she feels her hand being taken. She does not move her head when hot breath tickles her ear, and is almost ready to _collapse_ into a pile of her own shame when she hears Eivor rasp:

“I thank you for the compliment, my Lady, but I rather think the sentiment suits you better.”

Randvi’s puzzlement is washed over by her understanding that she just spoke _aloud-_ and that everyone _heard-_ but some clever part of her is quick to be her saving grace, as she responds drily, and lowly this time, with:

“You’re too kind, Eivor of the Raven Clan. Tell me, though; what do you make of this mountain? Would it be suitable enough for me to throw myself off?”

She squeezes Eivor’s hand as she speaks, her voice giving nothing away but her brain willing for the blonde beside her to recognise that it is but an ill-mannered joke, and she is pleasantly warmed when she can feel a repetitive press of fingers on hers. She turns her head just a bit, just to be able to gauge the reaction for herself, and is enamoured to find Eivor shaking with mirth, barely suppressing her laughter. 

Randvi turns back towards the onlookers, all settled now, biting at her lip to keep from giggling like a misbehaving child at a feasting, and is only able to discern the King’s presence when he all but booms:

“Ah! You’ve both made it, at last! And here we were, thinking wolves had perhaps gotten to you both! Come now, we must begin!”

Randvi looks on as she sees the tall, widened frame of the King make his appearance at the center of the makeshift aisle and asks, in no subtle terms, if he is officiating her wedding. The look he gives her is one of radiant glee, and he nods enthusiastically before beckoning her and Eivor over. Briefly as they shuffle forward, Randvi notices that her left hand feels warmer and more comfortable than her right, and she glances down for a split second to find that it’s because it is still being held and oh. She reckons she could very much become accustomed to the feeling.

Her and Eivor slowly make their way to the outermost tip of rock that pokes its way from beneath the heaviness of snow and turn to face each other, but not before Eivor lifts Randvi’s left hand to place a tender, affectionate kiss on her skin. Randvi watches this movement with rapt attention, her knees threatening to give out from underneath her and _Gods,_ she’s nervous. But she looks up at her bride’s face and can see her nerves reflected back at her as if she were staring into a mirror, and the knowing that Eivor- battle-scarred warrior Eivor of the Raven Clan- felt the exact same abates her worries for the time being. 

The blonde winks, Randvi smiles, and the King begins.

  
  


“ **And** now, it is time for your vows. Eivor, if you will.”

Randvi watches as Eivor nods- to herself more than anything apparently- and turns around to face her brother, standing behind her. They whisper among themselves for a moment, Sigurd slapping a broad hand on Eivor’s shoulder, before Eivor turns back around, and Randvi’s attention is no longer on her bride’s face but is on her hands, and what she appears to be holding out. It’s an axe of some sort, of average size and weight most likely, but the handle’s design is striking and the blade even moreso, shining beneath the midday sun and leaving Randvi with a lump in her throat. Her attention on the blade is again redirected, her thoughts screaming at her to _focus on Eivor,_ and she acquiesces, eyes meeting pools of blue just in time for Eivor to speak.

“Randvi of the Reindeer Clan, I gift you this.” Murmurs and hushed voices flutter and chirp amongst the mountain’s winds, and Randvi is confused at such a reaction, but Eivor goes on.

“My birth father’s axe. It was not so much given _to_ me as it was stolen _by_ me some time ago, when I had found it in an enemy camp, but the details are not— are not important.”

Randvi widens her eyes- tucking away knowledge that Eivor is not the King’s biological child and deciding she will ask about it later- as she watches Eivor stutter and stumble on her words, as if overcome with anxiety, and places her left hand on Eivor’s outstretched forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze in reassurance and faith. She sees Eivor smile and take a deep breath, and when she speaks now she has gained strength in her voice.

“My father died a coward when he surrendered this axe not seventeen winters ago, and I have since resolved to claim my own honour when his had been lost. I have fought countless battles and won, always with help from my clan but never with the help from this axe, so lost to me as I thought it to be. But only a few days ago, I found it, as if it had been given to me by Odín himself, and yet something within me knew that despite wanting it for so long, it could no longer be mine, and could no longer stand to be a symbol of my vengeance. I wanted to give a new meaning to this weapon, for I no longer want to be shrouded in my own retribution. And so I am giving this axe to you, my bride, in hopes that you will give it the depth and symbolism I cannot, and restore it to its former glory when I can do no such thing. In a way, this weapon is my soul, untethered and undefined; I would like for you to be its keeper, and be mine in turn. And my vow is this; I will be the eye to your storm, the spark to your fire, and the notch to your bow. I will be with you and for you for the rest of our days, and I will treat your needs as mine- will treat your _people_ as mine- until my dying breath. I swear this to you.”

Randvi is silent as Eivor finishes her speech, an emotion she cannot name shaking her from within, and she realises with a start that she is crying, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. She reaches out to take the axe, carefully holding the handle with both hands, and she sniffs unreservedly, her own pride be damned, as she gazes into shining blue eyes and thinks _I want to kiss her._

A hush has long since descended on the mountaintop, and Randvi watches as Eivor, delighted, mouths _not yet_ and Gods, she really needs to stop giving voice to her innermost thoughts. Then:

“Randvi”, King Styrbjorn instructs, a wetness to his words. “It is your turn to say your vows.”

 _Oh,_ she thinks. Where to begin? How could her vows possibly compare to Eivor’s words of poetry? But she remains gazing into light blue eyes, and she can _feel_ Eivor’s trust, Eivor’s unwavering faith in her. She sees, hears, feels the compassion and belief in her capabilities and in everything she is, and she is consumed by the notion that it will all be okay. And so Randvi takes a deep breath to compose herself. 

And she speaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Randvi: I wonder if Eivor likes me, though
> 
> Eivor: *admits she noticed Randvi from the get-go*, *gifts Randvi her father’s axe, the only thing she has left of him*, *swears fealty to Randvi in front of the entire settlement*, *is generally soft*
> 
> Randvi: I just don’t know!
> 
> Also, fun fact: Norsemen had a metric system! They measured things in feet and elbows and hands and such like we do and I could’ve included those as examples instead of just saying ‘inches’ and ‘metres’ but I’m Lazy™️. :)


	3. The Feasting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ever so slowly and with an infuriating care, Eivor leans her head forwards, and plants a gentle, sweet kiss on Randvi’s right cheek. The redhead’s eyes flutter shut, her stomach rolling with the honeyed mead and her sugared feelings, and she embraces the kiss for all that it is, hoping with everything inside her that it fact, a promise for a later time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk!Randvi is FUN.
> 
> Also- sexual tension? In _my_ fic? It’s more likely than you think.

**Fuzziness** is all Randvi can think, see, hear and feel as she downs the last of her mead, slamming the flagon down onto the wooden table in front of her heavy-handedly and without restraint. She thinks she can hear someone nearby yell _another!_ but what with her senses being overwhelmed with alcohol, she cannot tell her left from right, let alone hear _anything_ coherently. She attempts to cast her mind back to the earlier part of her day- the most important part, she thinks, really- to her wedding to Eivor, but everything's coming up blurred and stilted as if it happened in a dream and- hey- where _was_ Eivor? Randvi searches the area, squinting as though, by closing her eyes more, she’ll be able to _see_ more and- oh! Her bride is found, sitting directly opposite her, nursing her own half-full flagon of mead and watching her with a curiosity in her features, a brow quirking upwards as if she’s asking a question she already knows the answer to. 

Randvi can feel her cheeks ache with the width of her smile, and she can hear a loud, slurred: “Eivor!” That seems to be coming from very close by. The redhead looks around dazedly for the source of the noise, but with _so much_ going on around her, she is at a complete loss- until she feels a hand settle on hers across the table, and she whips her head back around- which, _bad idea,_ her stomach protests- to face her wife. Her wife, whose expression has switched from curious to humourous, the telltale signs of laughter still peeking through the twitch of her lips and the crinkles at the corner of her blue, blue, blue-like-the-ocean-eyes, and wait, what was Randvi thinking of again? 

As if to remind her, Eivor squeezes Randvi’s hand and asks, lips parting:

…

And Randvi is _pretty_ sure the blonde says something. She’s almost certain that Eivor’s mouth opened, her lips moved, and words came out. But, if she’s being honest with herself- and she knows that with so much mead in her stomach, she has no choice _but_ to be as honest as humanly possible- she can’t quite hear anything. Laughter is reverberating within the longhouse’s walls- oh, because that’s where the feasting is held after the wedding!- and the shrill sound of it makes thinking nearly unbearable. Randvi is still looking at Eivor, though, and she’s still trying to figure out whatever was just said when Eivor apparently has an idea, nodding to herself before making to stand, gesturing with both arms for Randvi to get up and join her. Randvi, too inebriated to notice she has even been guided upwards from her seat at the table, simply raises her left hand, the joint in question still quite firmly attached to her wife’s, and she rises with the notion that even if she weren’t filled up to her eyes with mead, she’d follow Eivor anywhere.

And so she does. Follow Eivor, that is. They make their way- one half of the pairing stumbling about like a madwoman- outside and into the freshest evening air Randvi has ever felt in her lifetime. The force of the biting wind and falling snow is almost enough to sober her up immediately, and she can feel her spine snap straight with the cold. Her gaze flickers to Eivor, now standing next to her and by the entrance to the longhouse, where the sounds of chortling and celebration continue, and half-expects the blonde’s vision to be on anything else. She’s pleasantly surprised to find Eivor’s eyes on her, then, soft and knowing, and she wants so desperately to curl up somewhere warm with only the comfort of those eyes to keep her company that she opens her mouth to _beg_ for it when Eivor pipes up with a bemused:

“So, how are you feeling?”

And. Well. It’s a good question, really, Randvi thinks, closing her mouth to ponder it. For today has been manic, and her thoughts and feelings have all jumbled together to form a gigantic cluster of confusion and— how _was_ she feeling? Scared? Happy? Nervous? Ecstatic? Tired? She parts her lips, wanting the answer that comes forth to be truthful and accurate and—

“Why didn’t you kiss me when we were declared wives?”

— And anything but _that._

Randvi knows mead has a habit of loosening her tongue fairly easily, but even so, she wants to hit herself upon her head for saying something so stupid in the moment, despite how much she wanted to address her concern. Because really, a small part of her- or quite a large part of her, she supposes- is upset at the thought that Eivor does not want to kiss her. Is there someone else? Is she not attractive enough? Clever enough? Good enough?

“Randvi'', Eivor murmurs, so quietly her voice can barely be heard, “I do not think any of those things'', and okay, she has definitely stepped into Randvi’s space now, the height difference more prominent with the lessening distance between them. Briefly, Randvi rolls her eyes, annoyed with herself for giving voice to her thoughts yet _again,_ but she is reminded of where she is and who she is with when the object of her budding affections steps even closer towards her. Eivor is so close now that Randvi can feel every hot, sweet breath against her nose, her mouth, and she longs to press her lips against Eivor’s just to gauge how they taste- how _she_ tastes- with such a consuming ferocity that it makes her head spin. Randvi is openly staring directly at Eivor’s mouth, and Eivor’s lips, and she wants to close the distance, wills it with every fiber of her being- but something, perhaps a sliver of sobriety- rationality- is holding her back. Still, Eivor is standing in front of her, breath coming out quickly now in short puffs, and it’d be really easy for either woman to close the gap and just—

“I will not kiss you when you are in a vulnerable state of mind, Randvi'' comes a sultry whisper, and Randvi’s toes curl in pleasure. Her pulse thrums beneath her skin and she feels like she’s burning up with a fever, all blood rushing to her face until she is sure there would be no use for the torches outside when her face is fire enough and Eivor, close as she is, _isn’t moving away_ and _Gods._ _Please,_ Randvi wants to whimper, wants to shout, wants to grovel, and she must say that aloud too because the sound Eivor releases into the charged night’s air is low and gravelly. 

Randvi’s eyes are wide and alert, now, waiting for something, _anything_ to happen, and she is still looking at Eivor’s lips but then her eyes, like a moth to a flame, are drawn upwards to face cool, glassy and intoxicated- _intoxicating-_ blue. She can feel a strong arm circle around her left hip, slowly and cautiously and _maddeningly,_ and the spark it evokes within her chest has her just about keeling forwards in submission, but even though Eivor’s eyes appear to darken under the light of fire, her hand suddenly stills. Time stops, and it is though all Randvi can hear now is the harsh, ragged breaths she is taking and releasing in plumes of moisture. From what she can ascertain; Eivor is faring no better.

Ever so slowly and with an infuriating care, Eivor leans her head forwards, and plants a gentle, sweet kiss on Randvi’s right cheek. The redhead’s eyes flutter shut, her stomach rolling with the honeyed mead and her sugared feelings, and she embraces the kiss for all that it is, hoping with everything inside of her that it is, in fact, a promise for a later time. She wishes for the moment to last forever, an eternity spent in the clutches of her bride’s arms and, by Odín, she needs to gain control of her emotions before she starts to think of words like _love,_ and—

“Come now, my Wife'', Eivor sings quietly in Randvi’s ear, vibrations making their way under her skin and further in still, and she can feel the hollow chill come to reclaim her body’s warmth as soon as the blonde moves a pace or two away. Her eyes open, taking longer than is necessary for her vision to stop blurring enough to see the figure of power and beauty and strength leaning against the slim post in front of her, and Randvi has half the mind to stomp right over and take Eivor’s face into her own hands, kiss her with abandon. She acquiesces, however, deciding instead to respect Eivor’s wishes and return to the festivities inside. Swallowing the slight disappointment she feels, Randvi bows her head down towards her chest, fixating her now-watering eyes- due to the chill, _surely-_ onto the whitened ground beneath her feet and hurriedly moving towards the familiarity of heat that appears to emanate through the longhouse’s walls. 

Randvi’s gaze, so set on her footsteps, does not allow for her to see her wife’s saddened face, the downturn of her mouth or the way she sighs in her own frustrations as she pushes herself off the post and follows behind.

  
  


**“To** Randvi and Eivor! Randvi- a toast, please!” The King bellows, lifting a large flagon of mead above his head so quickly that a little spills out, and the resounding chorus of cheers is for a moment so collective and _loud_ that Randvi, sat down and enjoying a mouthful of roasted chicken, begins to cough and splutter, feeling as though she may lose all sense of hearing completely whilst choking to death in the process. She chews hastily and looks to Eivor for support of some sort, the woman in question now sat next to her as opposed to across from her, and finds with some amusement that her wife is in a similar predicament of surprise, her own mouth filled with bread and eyes widened comically as she attempts to violently chew. The sight of a battle-born warrior caught so off-guard as she is quite obviously stuffing her face with food brings about a gleeful snort, but the reaction itself is so pronounced that it makes Randvi splutter even more, and she wonders how she and Eivor must look to all the drunkards sitting and laughing about- a pair of otherwise respectable and respected women trying with increasing effort to chew and swallow their food like they were but children learning to eat solids for the first time and failing spectacularly.  


Still, Randvi is not one to show herself up as it were- especially not in front of the King- and so she collects herself, swallowing the last of her chicken with only a little hassle and reaching forwards to grasp at her empty flagon. She stands, lifting the wood above her head and silently wishing for it to be full again just for the excuse to drink and _not_ make a speech about the unification of clans, but she knows it is her duty to address everyone, and so she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for the smallest of moments to gather her courage.  


Sudden warmth spreads across her right hand, and Randvi opens her eyes, looking down at the tabletop to where her hand is grasping at the wood and finding a roughened palm on top of hers. The sensation of heat is so pleasant and welcome that Randvi has half the mind to openly thank Eivor for it there and then, but she stays silent in her gratefulness for now, focusing more on the matter at hand. She purses her lips as she looks back up to face the awaiting crowd.

And she starts.

“Raven warriors and clanspeople alike- I would like to begin my speech with a thank you.” A pregnant pause within the stillness of the room, a sharp intake of breath within the silence, and then:

“When I was first told of my clan’s alliance with yours, I was but a babe, just learning to count and read, and I was understandably confused and shocked to my very core. Not because I doubted such an event possible, but because I knew, deep in my gut- young as I was- that it would be my duty, my role, my _responsibility,_ to unify people and bring about the beginnings of peace. My father was resolute when he sat me down by his throne, and despite my age and innocence, something in the way he squeezed my shoulder- something about the strength in his tone of voice, the look in his eyes- instilled a sort of determination in me that, to this day, I still feel.”

Randvi takes another short moment to catch her breath and clear her throat, finding her voice hoarse with emotion. The sharp piercing of homesickness buries itself deep below her breastbone at her mentioning her father- his strictness and temper towards her be damned- but she must carry on. She begins again.

“The news of my moving here, so quickly and much sooner than I had anticipated surprised me, of course. I don’t think I was quite ready to take up the mantle of peacemaker so soon into adulthood, and if I’m honest with you all… I don’t think I was all-too eager to fulfill my role at _all._ A part of me is still unsure I am actually here and standing before you all, busy as the day has been, but…”

A second clearing of the throat, but it isn’t Randvi this time around, and she halts, furrowing her brows and craning her head downwards to silently question her new wife of the minute disturbance. Eivor is sat forwards, one hand casually resting on a spread thigh and the other, still atop of Randvi’s, but it is the look on her face that has Randvi stammering over what she says next. Because Eivor, despite her level posture and leader-like confidence, has tears in her eyes, her stare fixed straight ahead, and if Randvi weren’t so dedicated to finishing her speech, she would further question such an unforeseen reaction. Alas, she knows she cannot waver from her address at this moment, and she most certainly knows that now is not the time nor the place to discuss what has seemingly upset her spouse. She blinks uncertainly, but looks back up to see eyes on her, and she is struck by just how much _attentiveness_ is being shown towards her by people she, only yesterday, still considered enemies. 

“I— I think that, given time, I will be able to stick to my duty and unite Reindeer and Raven people alike, and it is because of your hospitality and generosity that my feelings towards this union have changed for the better. My clan does not pride itself on friendship and love and affection, but King Styrbjorn, if I may—“

The flagon in her hand trembles, evidence of her nervousness as her eyes seek those of the King’s- and finds him now seated at a faraway table, Sigurd beside him- and she stills when she sees that even he is listening intently, an aged hand frozen on the curve of his mouth as his face paints a picture much akin to _pride_ that has her cheeks colouring with bashfulness as she says:

“— I do not quite remember the last time I was ever invited into a settlement with such care and cordiality, nor do I remember a time I was introduced to such an important figure and immediately made to feel at home. Your openness to my arrival and understanding of my apprehension has made this treaty all the more easier to accept, and for this show of kindness alone, I must thank you. My father had not told me of the people I would be meeting and conversing with and, well, marrying—“

A chorus of laughter rumbles through the hall, and Randvi does not need to move her head to know Eivor is laughing too; a squeeze upon her hand is all the proof of awareness she needs. 

“— but I am sure that if he had, I would have entered this land with less of my doubts and more of my trust. I am fully aware of the pride you have for your people and your ways, and I will do my very best to ensure I only maintain the respect and recognition of the clan. I thank you and your people for giving me the time and space this morning to prepare myself for what has turned out to be a _good_ occasion. And to my wife, Eivor—“

Randvi closes her eyes for just a heartbeat, gathering her wits before she casts her eyes on her bride and notes, not for the first time, the way in which she is being openly revered by the blonde drengr. Eivor looks up at her with awe and adoration churning within pearls of blue, a soft smile crossing her lips, and she lifts Randvi’s hand to place a tender kiss on her knuckles, giving a flirty wink to the raucous cheer of several men but not moving her mouth away.  
Something in Randvi’s chest stirs, hot and heavy, but she will not allow herself to be thrown off-kilter when she is so _close_ to ending her speech- no matter how much her body disagrees. And yet nothing can stop her voice from deepening when she continues:

“This day has surprised me in every way possible. I came here in fear of gaining a husband- my apologies, Sigurd—“

A broken: “it’s fine, my Lady!” cuts through the seriousness of the moment and brings about chortles and whistles, and Randvi rolls her eyes with feigned annoyance.

“— but instead, I am ending the evening with a wife, and for that I cannot be more pleasantly thankful. Never would I have anticipated such a union for myself- not when I was led to believe I would be tied to a fierce drengr man- and yet I cannot find it within me to be anything but gladdened. For you, Wolf-Kissed, much like the day, have surprised me. You first appeared to me as your title suggests- fearsome and confident to a fault. But I see more than that. I see a woman who is loyal beyond reason to her people- who treats every man, woman and child like her own brother, sister, or kin. I see a woman who is gentle with the forest around her, who treads lightly on her toes to keep from disturbing the birds in the trees or the deer on the snow. Earlier today, when we were descending the mountaintop of which we were wed, I watched you speak with the children, play with them- and this evening I have watched you wrestle with your fellow warriors and farmers alike, drink them under the table with no effort at all, dance with clans women in the midst of cheerful song. I have observed many sides to you on this day alone, and I see _you_ among it all. You are brave and you are courageous but you are also lovely and kind. You are all I wanted but never dared to dream of, and I think, to put it plainly, you are the sole reason for this union’s forthcoming success. I cannot wait to fight with you and by your side.”

The silence that stretches within the confines of the dining hall is so long that Randvi thinks she may have overstepped somehow or said something wrong. Perhaps she misspoke, perhaps she said too much, too soon? She turns her head to face away from Eivor’s open-mouthed astonishment and towards her new clan, and it is as though every single person in the room has been momentarily frozen in time. They are unmoving, unblinking, and Randvi’s heart, once beating a solid rhythm, is now pounding wildly beneath her breast. Every nerve in her body is telling her to _run,_ to _hide,_ to shy away from it all, and she has never felt so bare, so naked, so vulnerable as she does in this moment. She can feel her pulse buzzing beneath her skin, can feel beads of sweat forming at the nape of her neck, and _still_ the room is quiet.

But then, all at once, there is a cheer, and the deafening silence is shattered.

“To Eivor and Randvi!” The cheer begins, and Randvi does not know who shouts it first but the sound of it, so loud in the resounding quiet, almost has her sobbing in relief. It is followed by whoops and hoots of joy and drunken merriment, and when the music begins to play and people stand to dance and sing, Randvi takes the opportunity to _breathe._ She sits back down, feeling unsteady on her feet, and collapses onto wood with a sigh, the flagon in her hand thudding against the tabletop. A voice, low and unsure, snaps her from her thoughts, and she turns towards Eivor to find the woman practically vibrating with anxiety.

“Did you _mean_ all of what you said? Truly?”

And Randvi wants to retreat, wants to go back on herself if only to avoid answering the question because she _knows_ she meant every word, she _knows_ she basically just poured her heart and soul into a speech that possibly made up for her terrible vows earlier on in the day, and she _knows,_ without a semblance of a doubt, that she has not known Eivor nearly long enough to form such a strong affection for her.

And yet, she feels as though she has known Eivor forever.

Everything in Randvi wants for her to shrug her comments off as a drunken tirade but she cannot be so dishonest- not to Eivor and not to herself. So instead, she finds herself nodding, watching for any signs in Eivor’s features that indicate she is put off or even repulsed by her words and behaviour this evening. 

She sees none.

Something flickers in Eivor’s expression, mouth opening but nothing escaping her, and Randvi wants to interject with something lighthearted and funny just for the chance to divert attention away from her, away from thoughts and feelings of _love,_ of _yearning,_ but she is beaten to it. Eivor shakes her head, seemingly coming to some sort of conclusion- decision- and stands abruptly, severing the grip she has on Randvi’s hand. The Wolf-Kissed’s gaze roams about the room until she makes contact with something- or someone- and she nods once, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards.

“Come with me. It is time we bid farewell to this day”, Eivor starts, voice steady and sure as her face is. She looks down to Randvi and smiles warmly, holding out her hand.

Randvi does not hesitate to take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! I am Full Of Cold™️ right now so honestly? I’m hoping this chapter is at least a little comprehensible. 
> 
> Drunk Randvi is very, very fun to write and I’d honestly love to write about it more. Her and Eivor? Stupidly drunk together? May have to come up with an entire story about that.
> 
> ALSO- those of you waiting for Randvi’s vows? They’re coming up! Patience, friends. :)

**Author's Note:**

> King Styrbjorn: Randvi, I already love you like a daughter!
> 
> Also King Styrbjorn: ... Now go and sleep on the floor.
> 
> ALSO
> 
> Randvi: I don’t want to get married I don’t want to be a wife I don’t want any of it!!
> 
> Also Randvi [upon seeing Eivor]: WHEN is the wedding come ON let’s GO already!!
> 
> Tumblr: sweet-tangy-balls-jessica


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